Icescape

Water moves like the blood in us,
holding its movement up to be seen,
its angers, its strange calms —

mirror of us, how it lets all go,
breaking out of boundaries
in its run for life

or, frozen, holds itself
trapped in patterns,
its light through veins

a coloured map of hopes —
the way ice goes nowhere,
holds its breath, never arrives.

Jane Spiro